A Destiny Joined
by Ildera
Summary: Has anyone wondered what Aragorn's parents were like? Me, too. Plz RR!
1. Fate

Here we are! I'm still struggling with my sequel (thanks to Kat, you're keeping me going (you know who you are)). Anyway, I've always wondered what Aragorn's parents were like, so here's my little idea. Let me know if you want more.  
  
Disclaimer: In case you hadn't already guessed, none of this belongs to me. Got it?  
  
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin . . .  
  
  
  
Destiny's Joining  
  
  
  
Arathorn trudged through the fields, his dark hair hanging lank about his face. His hand hovered over his sword-hilt, his blue eyes alert for any sign of a threat. He could hear distant shouting. Perhaps he was coming up on a village, though he knew of no village in these hills, only farms and a small market inn where the farmers traded goods.  
  
Cresting the hill, he gazed across the rambling pastures. A small frown creased his forehead as he took note of a group of people below him, by the river that fed every farmstead for miles. He began to walk down to them, feeling anger stirring in his blood.  
  
Five burly farm workers had cornered one of the innkeeper's daughters. They were pushing her about, having taken her basket and thrown its contents to the animals. Her golden hair flashed in the afternoon sun as she turned this way and that, trying to escape them. Arathorn could see tears glistening on her cheeks.  
  
Angry that anyone would treat a woman in such a way, he nonetheless kept his features neutral as he approached them. Kneeling by the water, he filled his water sac, all the while keeping his eyes on the group nearby. One of the men growled,  
  
'Move on, Ranger. This is none of your concern.'  
  
Arathorn merely continued to watch them, forcing himself to relax despite the bruises he could now see adorning the girl's face and arms. Every time she tried to escape them, or fight back, she was shoved roughly to the ground, kicked or punched. He stood, adjusting his weapons to make sure they knew he was armed. The man took a step towards him.  
  
'I said, move on.'  
  
'I heard you,' Arathorn replied mildly, sheathing his dagger. 'What's so dangerous about the girl that five men must harass her so?'  
  
The men glared at him, the girl held fast in their midst. She looked at him, desperate hope clear in her eyes. He didn't allow himself to look at her, maintaining eye contact with the ringleader.  
  
'This is none of your concern.'  
  
He nodded.  
  
'Perhaps you're right.'  
  
Arathorn felt the girl's accusing eyes on his back as he turned away, waiting until they thought he was well on his way out of there. He stopped, turning back to face them.  
  
'Or then again, maybe I should make it my business.'  
  
They rushed him as one, their clumsy attacks easily deflected by his skill. As he fought them off with humiliating ease, one began to run, the others following suit until only the leader was left. He backed away, drawing a dagger and holding it to the girl's throat.  
  
'Not so confident now, are we?' he sneered, as Arathorn hesitated. 'Let me leave, without harm, and I'll let the girl go free in a mile or so.'  
  
'What's to prevent you mistreating her during that mile or so?'  
  
As the sneering man searched for a reply, Arathorn saw the girl's hand move down to the belt at her back. The leader never felt her remove the second dagger. As he tightened his grip on her, she slashed his own dagger down his arm, making him throw her away from him with a howl of pain. She fell heavily, crying out as she slammed into the rocks by the river. The man glanced from her to the Ranger and ran, his weapons forgotten.  
  
Arathorn watched him go, kneeling beside the girl. She flinched away from him.  
  
'I'm not going to hurt you,' he promised. 'I want to see how badly you're hurt.'  
  
Shaking with fear, she let him run his hands lightly over her, checking for any injuries other than those he could see. Her face, arms and throat were covered in bruises, her lip split, her nose bloody. Her hands were bleeding from where she'd fallen on the rocks, and a long gash ran down her leg. Arathorn was appalled at the injuries they had inflicted on her.  
  
'Why did they do this?'  
  
She shook her head.  
  
'I don't know,' she said in a small frightened voice. 'Something to do with my father, they said.'  
  
He began to rummage through his pack, pulling out clean bandages and herbs with which to make a poultice for her wounds. She watched him silently, wincing as he cleaned the gashes that decorated her otherwise flawless skin. When he had finally finished, the sun was low in the sky.  
  
'You will not be returning home tonight, my lady,' Arathorn said, gathering his belongings back into his pack. 'I will escort you to your homestead tomorrow.'  
  
'Thank you,' she said quietly, her brown eyes on him as he moved about. 'What is your name?'  
  
He smiled.  
  
'I am Arathorn. And you?'  
  
'Gilraen. My father owns the market inn.'  
  
'Well, it just so happens, Gilraen, that the market inn is my destination,' he told her, glad when she finally smiled back at him. 'I will take you home tomorrow.'  
  
  
  
*~*~*  
  
  
  
The fire crackled in the darkness, illuminating the two figures talking together. Arathorn had carried Gilraen, despite her protests, to a thicket near the river, not comfortable with making camp in the open. The night had descended quickly, bringing a crisp cold air that promised a frost. Gilraen was pressed against him as they talked, her slender frame shivering with cold. He dreaded to think how she was going to get through the night.  
  
'So, what is it like being a Ranger?' she asked suddenly, aware that neither of them had spoken for a while.  
  
Arathorn smiled faintly.  
  
'It is a hard life,' he told her. 'I have never had a house to call home, living my life under the unforgiving sky. The skills I hold have taken me forty years to master, and every day I learn something new. I have many enemies, always alert for danger, but I wouldn't change a thing. I am proud to be a Ranger.'  
  
Gilraen gazed at him, admiration in her eyes.  
  
'It must be wonderful to be able to live your life as you wish,' she said softly. 'To be who you wish, go where you like . . . I envy you.'  
  
He turned slightly to her, bemused.  
  
'Why, Gilraen? My life is harsh and dangerous; no one should long for it.'  
  
She bit her lip.  
  
'But it is free,' she said, a hint of tears on the edge of her voice. 'I am not free. I am my father's trump card, that he can play whenever he is threatened. Confined to the inn, forced to tolerate questing hands and drunken advances, and now, he wants to marry me off to one of his gaming partners! That is no life for anyone to lead, Arathorn, no matter how terrible they may be!'  
  
He stared at her.  
  
'How old are you?'  
  
'Twenty.'  
  
Arathorn was horrified that she should know so much hardship and still not have reached her independent age. Something inside him stirred that told him he didn't want her to endure any more of this. Next to him, Gilraen shivered again, pressing closer to him for warmth. Unconsciously, he wrapped his arm about her shoulders, letting her lean into him. He sighed.  
  
'No one should have to endure so much within their own family, Gilraen. You are far stronger than I would have given you credit for. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.'  
  
She didn't answer. Looking down, he saw that she had fallen asleep, nestled against his side. He grinned, moving them back gently until they were back against a tree, before covering her with his blanket. He settled back to sleep, trying to shake the feeling that, somehow, this was how they should be forever.  
  
  
  
*~*~*  
  
  
  
Arathorn woke early the next morning, blinking in the pre-dawn light. Beside him, Gilraen made a girlish sound in her throat, nestling closer to him, her head on his shoulder. Her golden hair fanned out over the soft ground, catching the light. She seemed so peaceful, so carefree as she slept, her young face soft in repose. He felt his heart move again, for the second time in two days when he was thinking about her. It was odd that she should touch him so in such a short space of time.  
  
A bird gave a shrill call in the trees above them, startling Gilraen out of sleep. She jumped, relaxing when she felt his strong arm about her. Gazing up into his eyes, she smiled faintly and sat up, running her fingers through the tangles in her hair.  
  
'Good morning,' Arathorn said, standing up and stretching.  
  
'Good morning.'  
  
He left her for a moment to fetch some water from the river, allowing Gilraen to watch him go, her eyes lingering on the spot where he had been for some time afterward. She didn't know what had come over her, a sudden certainty that if she didn't spend her life with him, then it would be unfulfilled. She had never been one to believe in fate, but somehow knew that her destiny lay with the Ranger, whoever he might be.  
  
Arathorn returned, giving her a gentle smile as he offered the water sac to her. Gilraen thanked him, wondering if he felt the same way about her. And if he didn't, what would she do? 


	2. Danger

Walking along slightly behind her guide, Gilraen caught her leg on a low branch, stumbling as she cried out in pain. Arathorn was at her side instantly, his hands snaking about her waist to hold her upright as he ascertained how badly she was hurt. Blood was seeping through her skirt again. He gently picked her up, carrying her to the riverside once more.  
  
As he cleaned and rebound the wound, Gilraen tried desperately to quell her rising sobs. The pain had been so intense and so sudden that she felt overwhelmed, even though it was slowly receding. Arathorn looked up, seeing her tears behind her eyes. He placed a finger to her lips, slowly tracing her jawline with his hand. Gilraen calmed, mesmerised by his gentleness.  
  
'Thank you.'  
  
Standing, he swung her up into his arms, ignoring her protests that she could walk, and began the walk to the inn. Since they were only two miles away, it took him a little less than an hour to reach it.  
  
The innkeeper ran out, all concern for his daughter, though Arathorn caught his disapproval and her resentment shining through their considerate words. Walking into the inn, he saw that several of her attackers were there. They tensed as he passed through, bearing the injured girl to her chamber in the attic. He delivered her into the hands of her grandmother, and returned downstairs to find that they had all gone.  
  
'Excuse me,' he said, catching the innkeeper's attention. 'Would it surprise you to know that the customers who just left are the ones responsible for your daughter's injuries?'  
  
The man looked angry.  
  
'No, it wouldn't,' he growled. 'They want her for themselves. I daresay she's told you about my marrying her off?'  
  
Arathorn nodded, his features carefully neutral as he sipped his ale.  
  
'I don't suppose she mentioned that it's because she's been marked by them lot who just left? If she's not married safely, in a few month's time, they'll steal her from under my nose and make her their whore, whether she wants to or not. They're thieves, and brigands, and murderers, the lot of them, and I'd die before seeing one of my own in with them!'  
  
He reached below the bar and produced an axe, scowling at the door behind Arathorn.  
  
'What do you want?'  
  
Arathorn turned to see a dishevelled looking man standing in the doorway. He looked exhausted.  
  
'I've just ridden for four days to reach you. The band are planning an attack on your inn, sir.'  
  
The innkeeper tensed.  
  
'When?' he asked.  
  
'Anytime soon,' came the reply. 'They want Gilraen.'  
  
Arathorn forced himself to calm down, his fists automatically clenching into fists at the thought of harm to the golden haired girl.  
  
'What am I going to do?' the innkeeper demanded. 'I can't hold them off here, and no one would want to help protect me. You'd better move on, sir, this won't be your fight.'  
  
'Then I will make it my fight,' Arathorn told him. He turned to the man by the door. 'Are you and your horse fit to ride?'  
  
'Yes, sir.'  
  
Arathorn gave him his dagger and sheath.  
  
'Ride to Dunland. When you come across the Rangers, give them that and tell them Isildur's Heir needs their aid. Then lead them here.'  
  
They stared at him.  
  
'Do it, man!'  
  
The man turned and fairly ran from the room. They could hear him spurring his horse away fast. Arathorn turned to the innkeeper.  
  
'Who lives in this dwelling?'  
  
'Gilraen, my mother, my two sons and myself,' the innkeeper replied. 'You're Isildur's Heir?'  
  
'Yes,' Arathorn replied curtly. 'Get your sons here, now.'  
  
As the man hurried away, Arathorn cast his eye over the bar-room. Not bad to defend, and if they had to, they could fall back to the attic. If the 'band' wanted Gilraen so much, they wouldn't risk her death by setting fire to the place. He passed his hand over his eyes. Curse his heart for leading him here!  
  
  
  
*~*~*  
  
  
  
'Young man, I have seen more conflict in my time than you ever will. Kindly step aside!'  
  
Arathorn threw up his hands and let the grandmother past. She had armed herself with a wicked looking axe, and was now taking up position by the window, having refused to remain upstairs with her grand-daughter. It had been two days since they had been warned of an attack, time which Arathorn had put to good use, reinforcing the doors and shutters of the building. The rider should have reached Dunland by now, and the Rangers should only be a day or two away. However, Arathorn had seen horsemen approaching from the East that morning, and knew they were not his friends. Tonight, they would have to fight.  
  
A creak on the stair alerted him to Gilraen making her way down to them. He hurried over to her, not wanting her involved in the fighting.  
  
'Go back up there,' he said, barring her way.  
  
She glared up at him.  
  
'No.'  
  
'You'll be safer.'  
  
'I don't want to be safer, I want to fight. I'm the reason this is happening anyway, so I'm not going to wait up there while people risk their lives for me!'  
  
'Gilraen -'  
  
'No, Arathorn. I'm tired of having my battles fought for me.'  
  
Arathorn felt an icy blanket settle over his heart. She would be killed!  
  
'Please, Gilraen,' he pleaded. 'I couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you.'  
  
Gilraen looked up at him with tears in her eyes.  
  
'I'm sorry, Arathorn,' she said quietly, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. 'This is my home, and I will defend it, whether you approve or not.'  
  
This battle was lost, he could see the resolve in her eyes. Gesturing to the bow she held in her hands, he said,  
  
'Do you know how to use that?'  
  
She nodded, grateful that he had backed down. He led her to a window where she would have a clear shot at whoever came towards them from that side. Turning, he looked at his motley group. The innkeeper was crouched by the door, a crossbow in his hands and a sword swung across his back. His sons, both less than sixteen years of age, looked at the Ranger with frightened eyes, hefting their bows. The grandmother met his gaze head on, inclining her head to him as she turned back to the window.  
  
Arathorn forced himself to look at Gilraen. She stood by the casement, the soft afternoon light illuminating her serious expression. The bow was strung and ready, an arrow already nocked on the string. She looked up at him, her eyes afraid. He longed to put his arms about her, protect her from what they would have to do. He doubted she had ever killed another person before. His heart went out to her as she turned away.  
  
'They will probably come for us tonight,' he told them. 'They'll try a head on attack first, and when that doesn't work' - he purposely didn't say if - 'when that doesn't work, they'll try stealth. Good luck, my friends.'  
  
He knelt beside Gilraen, his bow at the ready. This would be a long night. 


	3. Hope

The first attack came shortly before midnight. Dozens of riders came howling out of the darkness, firing arrows at the darkened building. Arathorn felt the tension in the bar-room rise several notches, and was pleased to note that none of them panicked. They had spent the hours of waiting fashioning many arrows and bolts with which to rake their ranks. Glancing up, he saw Gilraen watching their attackers' antics with an expression of distaste. The defenders were all hidden in shadow, so the band wouldn't know that they were expected. To them, the building was deserted, a dark hollow house where they could take what they wanted and leave with the minimum of fuss.  
  
They approached fast, unaware that they were being watched. At some unspoken signal, six bowstrings twanged, six arrows shot into the dark, six men toppled from horseback. The little family slipped back into shadow again, hidden from the now uneasy attackers' eyes. Six of their number had been killed, and none of them had seen a thing.  
  
Again, arrows raked into them, injuring men and horses. The defenders kept up a volley until Arathorn called a halt, wanting to see what the brigands would do now. Hidden in shadow, he watched them closely.  
  
They wheeled about, leaving the injured to drag themselves away from the silent building. Re-grouping a safe distance away, he could hear a furious conversation going on. It appeared that they hadn't yet noticed the family hidden in the bar-room, certain the arrows had come from above. Fifteen of their number were dead or injured already, and they hadn't drawn blood. They moved away, out of sight, to formulate a plan.  
  
'What now?' Gilraen asked.  
  
Arathorn smiled grimly at her.  
  
'Now it gets serious.'  
  
Two hours later, the attackers returned, and this time as the arrows raked into them, they didn't stop coming. Soon the horses were all useless, dead or injured, and many more of their number also, but they kept on. This time they reached the relative cover of the outhouses, returning fire with a hail of arrows and bolts. Several of these made it through the windows, though thankfully not hitting anyone, and were added to the piles of ammunition. Despite everything, the defenders maintained a complete silence, a fact that began to un-nerve their attackers.  
  
Suddenly, a man rose up directly in front of Gilraen's grandmother, an arrow firmly embedded in his chest, a sword in his hand. The old woman very calmly decapitated him with her axe, his blood spraying over her as his body fell back. The arrow storm stopped abruptly at this demonstration of skill.  
  
'I'm guessing they think they're facing more than six,' Arathorn told them in a hoarse whisper. 'Stealth is out of the question with this type of defence. Keep steady, and don't waste your arrows.'  
  
He turned back to the window. Gilraen took a deep breath, biting her lip as she nocked another arrow. Taking aim, she fired, taking out a man who apparently thought it was perfectly safe to stand with your head above the line of cover. An arrow in the forehead soon disabused him of that notion.  
  
'Nice shot,' Arathorn noted.  
  
'Thanks,' she said with a smile.  
  
The hours before dawn were spent with charge after charge made by the attackers, only to be repelled by the defenders, who made it perfectly clear they were not going to give in. Only their superior numbers kept them from giving up themselves.  
  
In a final charge before dawn, they threw all they had at the dark inn. Arrows and bolts flew, men rushed them, roars filled the air. A bolt caught Arathorn in the shoulder, forcing him back from the window. Gilraen cried out in fear, drawing her sword and dagger, and slashing at the heaving mass of men pressing to enter their stronghold. One of the boys fell back, his throat slit. Just as it seemed they were defeated, they heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. The attackers broke and ran, leaving them gasping for breath.  
  
Gilraen fell to her knees beside Arathorn, her eyes on his wound. He grasped her hand.  
  
'Your brother,' he rasped, heaving himself to the window, his good hand on the sword at his belt.  
  
She stumbled over to the bloodied body. The boy's eyes were wide and staring, his chest immobile. She felt her grandmother grasp her shoulder, leaning across to close his eyes. He was dead. Before the tears could come, they heard the riders approach the inn, reining in their horses warily.  
  
'Arathorn! Where are you?'  
  
The Ranger by the window pulled himself to his feet, blood pouring down his arm from the bolt in his shoulder.  
  
'I'm here, my friend.'  
  
The Dunedain had arrived, and not a moment too soon.  
  
  
  
*~*~*  
  
  
  
Gilraen leant against the wall, enjoying the evening breeze. Her heart ached for the loss of her brother, and the injury to Arathorn. It wasn't his fight, and yet he had stayed to protect them, calling his people to them. He had said he couldn't bear any harm to come to her, and he had been the one harmed. Guilt weighed heavily on her. Her brother dead, and the man she loved injured, all because she had refused to go with five men who attacked her four days before. She longed to be able to cry, but no tears would come.  
  
The Rangers had buried her brother that morning, before tending to Arathorn and fixing up the inn as best they could. They didn't seem to mind that they had been called so far. They were pleasant and cheerful, and determined to repay Arathorn's injury ten-fold upon the brigands who had hurt him.  
  
'Penny for your thoughts?'  
  
She jumped, turning to see Arathorn behind her. He gave her a rakish grin and leant beside her.  
  
'Are you all right?'  
  
Gilraen smiled at him.  
  
'I'm fine,' she lied.  
  
He lifted her chin, making her look into his eyes.  
  
'No, you're not.'  
  
He looked so concerned, all her guilt swelled to the surface, forcing its way out as tears. Horrified, Arathorn pulled her into his embrace, comforting her as best he could.  
  
'It's all my fault,' she sobbed. 'Hurn is dead, and you're injured, and none of it would have happened if I'd just gone with them . . .'  
  
'No!'  
  
Arathorn leant down, looking into her eyes. He felt angry that she would blame herself for this disaster.  
  
'None of this is your fault, do you hear me? Hurn died defending his home, and his sister. He had the choice to leave and he didn't. Don't take that away from him.'  
  
Gilraen looked at him, tears streaming down her face.  
  
'What about you? You didn't have to stay.'  
  
Arathorn pulled her back into his arms, wishing she had asked something different and longing to tell her the truth.  
  
'I stayed because no one should live in such danger,' he told her, 'because you all needed me to stay . . . because I . . . I love you.'  
  
Gilraen pulled back, gazing into his eyes with incredulity.  
  
'You do?'  
  
He nodded, his eyes burning into hers. Gilraen smiled through her tears.  
  
'I'm glad,' she said, wrapping her arms about his waist and lowering her head to his chest. 'I love you, Arathorn.'  
  
Arathorn's eyes widened as the breath rushed out of him. His arms tightened around her.  
  
'Are you sure?'  
  
She raised her head and kissed him softly, her lips moving lovingly across his.  
  
'Does that answer your question?'  
  
He grinned, squeezing her tightly and kissing her hair. They stood together for what felt like an eternity.  
  
'Gilraen?'  
  
'Hmm?'  
  
Arathorn took a deep breath.  
  
'Will you marry me?'  
  
A sob was his reply. Gilraen was crying into his chest.  
  
'What's wrong?'  
  
She lifted her head, a wide delighted smile on her face.  
  
'Nothing,' she laughed through the tears. 'Of course, I'll marry you.'  
  
He laughed, leaning down to kiss her again. A shout distracted them. The Ranger on the roof called down to them,  
  
'They're coming!'  
  
They hurried inside, barring the door, and taking up positions in shadow. There would be no sleep for another night.  
  
  
  
*~*~*  
  
  
  
The brigands approached cautiously, unaware that now there were upwards of forty people prepared to defend the inn. As soon as they were in range, six Rangers began to fire at them, each arrow taking one of the attackers out. They fell back, seemingly perplexed by the sudden upsurge in skill the innkeeper's family had acquired.  
  
They raised their shields, moving closer, ignoring the cries as their companions fell about them, arrows protruding from their armoured bodies. They reached the courtyard in relative safety, the arrow storm stopping as they drew closer. The gates clanged shut behind them. They started in fear, drawing closer together in the hopes that they were over-reacting. Their eyes darted about, peering into shadowy corners and up onto the roof.  
  
Suddenly, dark shapes dropped all around them, many more than they would ever have guessed. The Rangers drew back their cloaks to reveal their vast array of weapons, waiting for the brigands to attack. As the innkeeper and his family watched from the relative safety of the attic, a fierce battle ensued, though it was clear from the start that the Rangers had the upper hand. It was over in a matter of minutes, the courtyard strewn with dismembered bodies, and groaning men. Revenge had been issued. 


	4. Joined

Gilraen paced the tiny chamber in agitation, her dress swishing about her ankles. Her grandmother smiled tolerantly at her.  
  
'What is wrong, my dear?'  
  
Gilraen looked up at her, stricken.  
  
'What if he doesn't come?'  
  
The grandmother laughed.  
  
'Oh, my Gilraen, of course he'll come. Your destinies were joined from the moment you met on the fields. He fought to protect you when he knew nothing of us. I shouldn't think Isildur's Heir would want to lose you now.'  
  
The golden haired girl relaxed, amusement written on her features. There was a knock on the door, and her father peeped around the ancient wood.  
  
'They're ready for you now, sweetheart. You look beautiful.'  
  
'Thank you, father.'  
  
She embraced him, allowing him to lead her down to where the people were waiting.  
  
In their midst stood Arathorn, his eyes shining with such love Gilraen thought she might cry. She had never thought that love would touch her in such a way. Her grandmother was right. Their destiny was joined, and nothing on Middle-earth could tear it asunder.  
  
  
  
*~*~*  
  
  
  
Does anyone out there think I should keep going with this? 


End file.
